he
knew that only the cipher of him was there, nothing was filled
in. He went to the theatre; what he heard and saw fell upon a
cold surface of consciousness, which was now all that he was,
there was nothing behind it, he could have no experience of any
sort. Mechanical registering took place in him, no more. He had
no being, no contents. Neither had the people he came into
contact with. They were mere permutations of known quantities.
There was no roundness or fullness in this world he now
inhabited, everything was a dead shape mental arrangement,
without life or being.

Much of the time, he was with friends and comrades. Then he
forgot everything. Their activities made up for his own
negation, they engaged his negative horror.

He only became happy when he drank, and he drank a good deal.
Then he was just the opposite to what he had been. He became a
warm, diffuse, glowing cloud, in a warm, diffuse formless
fashion. Everything melted down into a rosy glow, and he was the
glow, and everything was the glow, everybody else was the glow,
and it was very nice, very nice. He would sing songs, it was so
nice.

Ursula went back to Beldover shut and firm. She loved
Skrebensky, of that she was resolved. She would allow nothing
else.

She read his long, obsessed letter about getting married and
going to India, without any particular response. She seemed to
ignore what he said about marriage. It did not come home to her.
He seemed, throughout the greater part of his letter, to be
talking without much meaning.

She replied to him pleasantly and easily. She rarely wrote
long letters.

India sounds lovely. I can just see myself on an elephant
swaying between lanes of obsequious natives. But I don't know if
father would let me go. We must see.

I keep living over again the lovely times we have had. But I
don't think you liked me quite so much towards the end, did you?
You did not like me when we left Paris. Why didn't you?

I love you very much. I love your body. It is so clear and
fine. I am glad you do not go naked, or all the women would fall
in love with you. I am very jealous of it, I love it so
much.

He was more or less satisfied with this letter. But day after
day he was walking about, dead, non-existent.

He could not come again to Nottingham until the end of April.
Then he persuaded her to go with him for a week-end to a
friend's house near Oxford. By this time they were engaged. He
had written to her fa